Mistshore (2 page)

“Right, of course you do.” Brant offered a hand to help her up. “You’ll do well by him. This will be a good day.”

“Assuming everything goes smoothly.” Icelin plucked up the discarded cup, got to her feet, and drained the rest of her tea in one swallow. Brant sighed at the gulping noise.

Icelin wiped her mouth. “Yes, Great-Uncle, I slurp my tea and will therefore never be a proper lady.” She widened her eyes. “Didn’t I horrify you with that revelation a long time ago?”

“Can’t an old man hope for a miracle?” Brant smiled. “In

with you. The least you can do is meet Kredaron in something more than a dressing gown.”

“Anything to make you happy, Great-Uncle.”

The sun was warm and high in the sky by the time Icelin got out of the house. She and Brant shared a small, neat set of rooms above the sundries store. Her great-uncle had few possessions, and Icelin had no great desire for baubles. The space was more than adequate for them both.

As promised, she’d shed her dressing gown, and even washed her face. But then Brant had cornered her in the kitchen and forced her to eat some bread and a bowl of the simmer stew he’d prepared the night before. He claimed she never ate enough. Her usual chores were after that—washing the windows and sorting coin from the previous day’s business—before she had to prepare for her afternoon meeting with Kredaron.

She’d braided her hair and put on an ankle-length dress of light linen—brown, of course, so it wouldn’t show the dust. One had to measure beauty against practicality in South Ward. Clouds of dust were everywhere on the dry days, and the mud slowed traffic when the rains came. But she had tall boots for those wetter occasions.

Crossing the High Road, Icelin wove among carts and shouting drivers until she reached Tulmaster’s Street. She slowed her pace and walked in the shade of the crowded old stone shops and warehouses. The cries of cattle and horses mingled with the constant chatter of people coming and going on the busy streets.

Icelin knew the way without marking it. She knew that two streets north sat Shureene’s Clothiers, and after that The Lone Rose, a flower shop that had been vacant since the winter but still smelled of fresh blooms. New violets grew in boxes outside the empty shop’s windows. Someone had been watering them, though Icelin knew the shopkeeper had left the city months ago, with no expectation of returning.

This perpetual motion of travelers and traders, old and new settlers making their marks, left a strange mixture of restlessness and comfort in the city’s inhabitants. Change could come in a day, yet commerce carried on. There was always more coin to be made and more to be lost. Icelin had been born to this function; it was the one thing you could always count on, according to her great-uncle.

Between the flower shop and the Inn of Spirits were two condemned warehouses. Icelin turned off Tulmaster’s before she reached them, opting instead for Caravan Street to take her to the designated meeting spot.

The Watch claimed the warehouses were not dangerous, but Icelin had heard rumors, whispers that Spellplague workings had made the buildings unstable. Icelin avoided such places, as did all sensible folk in Waterdeep/

The city had been lucky—or gods-blessed enough—to escape much of the destruction that came in the wake of the Spellplague, an event that Icelin only comprehended through her great-uncle’s stories. The explosion of wild magic had swept through Faerűn decades before her birth. Icelin and the rest of the younger folk had been spared the phenomenon and many of its aftereffects.

Icelin glanced at the sky. In the distance, she could still see the floating rock mote and its lightning play. One could get lost watching the strange islands drift over the city.

She blinked and saw the impression of a tower: white stone buried in sand. The spire appeared grown from the rock itself. Icelin shivered and looked away. When she looked back, the tower was gone. She must have imagined it.

That was another reason folk were quick to come and go from the city. All over Faerűn, the Spellplague had made life an uncertain notion at best. At times you couldn’t trust your own eyes. And the strange, deadly spell ravages always seemed to spur people in one of two directions: to the cities, for relative comfort and security; or to the wilds, so that the travelers might comprehend some small piece of this changed landscape. Whatever strangeness had been wrought in Waterdeep by the Spellplague, Icelin wanted nothing of that outside world and all its upheaval.

Quickening her pace, Icelin tucked up closer to the familiar buildings, structures, that didn’t change shape or sprout new heads.

She reached the end of Caravan Street and a small, open square between buildings. Portals had been cut in the side of the nearer building, and folk leaned out to serve handpies and cold drinks to laborers and passersby. Wooden benches lined the square, and a handful of people sat at tables and sipped while they conducted private business.

Kredaron sat at the far end of the square. He was an aging man, with white hair that curled at the ends and papery skin that had seen the sun too often. He carried a rolled bundle of silk close to his chest. He rose and waved when Icelin caught his eye.

“Greetings, Kredaron,” Icelin said, taking the seat across from him. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not at all, lass,” the merchant said. His voice sounded soft and reedy. “I appreciate you coming. I trust Brant is well?”

“Yes, and he sends his greetings,” Icelin said. She spread her hands. “So, where is this trove you would have me safeguard?”

Kredaron smiled. “Brant said you didn’t enjoy wasting time—how rare in a young person. To business then, but if I may: would it be rude of me to ask for a small demonstration of your qualifications?”

“Not at all.” Icelin’s polite smile held. She listened to the sounds of the square. After a breath, she put her hand on the warped tabletop and made a gesture against the wood grain.

Light glazed her fingertips, and a warm glow spread across the table. No one sitting nearby could see the light except Icelin and the merchant. When the light faded, Icelin took a moment to gather her wits. There was no nausea, just the edge of weakness that came with every spell. Fortunately, she’d eaten heartily before leaving home—her great-uncle had seen to that—and barely noticed the pull.

She focused on Kredaron. “There are three occupied tables behind me. One is a lad and lass, roughly six summers my junior. They are lovers planning how best to tell the lass’s father that she is with child, and they not yet hand-fasted. The second is a gnome sitting alone. He talks to himself, lives in the Warrens, and thinks it’s too warm this Eleint day for being out of doors. The third table bears two women, pocket-thieves, who until a breath ago were very interested in your roll of silk. I’ve since disguised it to appear as if you’re holding an ugly and very sulky dog, wrapped in a silk blanket. We should be undisturbed.”

Kredaron shook his head in admiration. “Brant didn’t exaggerate. You are remarkable, lass. Did you determine all that with your magic?”

“No,” Icelin said, chuckling. “Mostly I listened to their conversations. Folk reveal more about themselves when they feel they are unobserved than most magic could tell you about their entire lifetimes.”

“True words,” Kredaron said. His forehead wrinkled. “You have an extraordinary memory, to note so much detail.”

Icelin’s smile twisted ruefully. “My means of living is spell-craft, but it is not my only gift. If you would know my full qualifications, you should be aware that my memory is flawless. I can recall any piece of information I am confronted with, no matter how trivial.”

Kredaron smiled uncertainly. “That’s quite a statement. I would dismiss such a claim entirely, especially coming from so young a

person, but you don’t seem to take any joy in the admission.”

Icelin lifted a shoulder. “I only speak of it when it’s necessary to the task at hand. Whether you believe me or not, you should know what you’re getting when you hire me. Would you care to test me?”

“I would, for curiosity’s sake,” Kredaron said. “How?”

“Spread out your pieces,” Icelin said. “I’ve shielded the table from prying eyes.”

“As you say.” Kredaron unrolled the span of silk on the table in front of her.

Icelin looked at the spread for two breaths and then back at Kredaron. “Cover them,” she instructed.

He did as she asked. When the pieces were safely hidden, so that not even their shapes could be discerned in the wrappings, Icelin folded her hands on the tabletop.

“I am by no means an expert,” she said, “but by my estimation your heirlooms would easily bring in enough coin for you to establish a presence in the spice market, perhaps even secure property for a small shop. You have three opals: one in a silver ring, thumb-sized; one in a clawed brooch; and one alone, ripped from its setting by some force. There is a ruby with a well-concealed flaw, and a silver braided neckpiece, like a spi-derweb but with links missing. You shouldn’t have any trouble repairing them; the damage is minimal. The gold chains are problematic—one is a clever forgery, but nested with the others it appears just as fine. I would of course remove that one before trying to sell the lot.

“You won’t have trouble with fakery when it comes to the matching circlets. Those chains are genuine, and the diamonds they hold are the star items of your collection. But I didn’t have to appraise them to know that. Your displaying of them in the exact center of the collection shows your pride. The sunlight catches the stones and sets them aflame with color.

“There is magic swirling in all the pieces,” Icelin said, “of

varying degrees. It would take further study to determine how much and of what type.”

“What about the bracelet?” Kredaron asked her. “The charms on the chain, what were they?”

“The charms were a lock and key, both tarnished, a tiny slipper, and a rose,” Icelin said. “The rose was pink topaz. There was no bracelet. Shall I keep going?”

“How long could you recite them?” Kredaron asked, fascinated. “Will you remember the pieces tomorrow, or is this just a mind trick you’ve mastered?”

“I will remember them tomorrow and every day for the rest of my life, if it serves me,” Icelin said. Kredaron was right. She felt no joy in the admission. “Since it likely won’t serve me beyond this day,” she added, “I will put the knowledge away, find some dusty corner where my memory has space—there’s always space, of course—and there it will stay. Once I’ve put a recollection like that aside, it’s difficult to find again, since I don’t have a ready use for it. It’s much like locating a single crate in all the warehouses of Dock Watd. It may take hours, days, but I can remember them all.”

Kredaron shook his head. “Well, lass, you are a wonder, which is rare in a city full of them. You have shown me your skills. I am assured of success in this transaction.”

Icelin inclined her head. “Then let us proceed.” When he’d spread out his items again, she laid a finger on a cameo brooch. The figure was of a thin woman sheathed in lace. The piece was smooth with age, but the detail was still astonishing, from the creamy relief to the oval background. She’d briefly touched the magic in the piece, but that was not her reason for choosing it. Her interest lay in its value to a jeweler.

“May that be my payment, Kredaron?” she inquired.

“You have excellent taste,” said the merchant. He lifted the brooch for her inspection. “It’s not the most valuable, nor the most ostentatious of the lot. But there is history here, I think.”

“You think:’You don’t know the origins of the pieces?”

“Not all of them,” Kredaron admitted. “They came from my father’s family, and he’s been gone a long time. I don’t even know who the woman is, so I haven’t formed any particular attachment to the piece. You may have it with my gratitude.”

Icelin slid the brooch into the coin-purse fastened around her neck and tucked the pouch away in her dress. Kredaron ordered them light wine from the vendors. The glasses were just being poured, the wine’s buttery color glowing warm in the sunlight, when Kredaron’s buyer arrived.

Icelin was surprised to see the gold elf approach their table. She didn’t know what sort of man she’d expected to be interested in Kredaron’s pieces, but this one was an anomaly, even among the varied folk of South Ward.

The elf was unusually tall. Not gangly, but thinner than he should have been. He was dressed in a tailored, deep blue doublet with a subtle river of silver thread ornamenting the shoulders. The cloth was only marginally above workman’s material, however. She recognized the style from what Brant sold in his shop.

He buys for resale, Icelin thought, not for his own collection. Yet his style and carriage suggested he had at least some means of his own.

When her eyes reached his face, Icelin took care to keep her expression politely blank. His own features were impossible to tead. The right side of his face appeared robust and healthy, the color enhanced by his dark clothing. But the left side was a patchwork of burn scars.

Puckerings of deep red skin quilted his forehead and all the way down to his jaw. From what she could tell, his left eye appeared to see normally, but it moved slightly out of concert with his right. The strikingly blue orb in the left socket looked like it was being chewed up by the field of angry red. Part of the elf’s ear on the scarred side was missing, skewing the pointed end. The disfigurement caused a jarring, asymmetrical appearance to his face.

An elf, but not an elf, Icelin couldn’t help thinking.

“Well met, Kredaron.” The gold elf bowed to the merchant and took a seat at the table. Icelin watched in silence while the pair conversed. The merchant did not introduce her, but she hadn’t expected him to. Kredaron’s buyer was well aware that her purpose in the transaction was security. Icelin watched him closely, but she could detect no deception in him when he bargained for the jewelry.

It was well into late afternoon by the time a price had been decided for each piece. Kredaron chose the type and denomination of coin, and the elf agreed to his terms. Through it all, Kredaron was calm and eloquent. Icelin had no doubt his new business venture would do well, and she was glad of her small part in bringing that about.